Wednesday, February 3, 2016

Throwback Thursday: Angel in Heaven

Reposting a story from May of 2014.

I will admit the last few days/weeks/months/years have been a little stressful. The muscles in my neck and shoulders have knots that would baffle the best Eagle Scout. I have precious few outlets for stress relief and relaxation, trips to the range being my primary choice and I haven't been in a couple of weeks. Many, many friends have suggested I try massages. Um, no. For several pertinent reasons:

lack of proper attire, i.e. nudity. "Okay, sweetie, undress to your comfort level and get on the table." So I wore slacks and a tailored blouse with sensible pumps.

relaxation. You know what happens when you relax? Gasses trapped tightly inside find freedom. I don't find an hour on a table with a stranger trying to coax farts out of me to be relaxing. I spend the time tightly clenched repeating, "Don't fart, don't fart, don't fart...." Massage therapists consider this to be a challenge.

touching. Ick. I mean, okay, touching is good in certain contexts, but a stranger touching you while you're nekkid and trying not to fart is wrong.

So where is all this going? Oh yeah, heaven. I get home this morning from dropping my chicks off at school to find a good friend sitting in my driveway, grinning with the motor running. We're either about to bury a body or pull off a heist. Yippee! I grab my purse and hop in and head off on the day's adventure. The following is as close as I can recall.

Her: Here, drink this.
Me: What is it?
Her: Breakfast.
Me: Mmmm, mimosa. Where are we headed?
Her: Have another mimosa.

At this point, I'm a leetle suspicious, but I'm on mimosa #2, so okay. We get to the big city and she heads for her folks' house, which is currently empty as they're on a cruise. Hmmmm. Kill mimosa #2. I carefully get out of the truck (2 mimosas on an empty stomach) and follow her in to meet..... ta daaaaa!...... her other friend who is a licensed and very vaunted massage therapist. Shit. We sit and have brunch, more mimosas, and just chat until I'm lulled into a false sense of security. ~snort~

So, there I am in my friend's folk's living room, stripping nekkid (thank God I wore cute undies), and inviting this woman I just met to rub scented oil over my naked flesh. Best damned decision of the day.

She helps me face down on the table covered with the softest sheet and warm blanket, and adjust until everything was comfortable. Side note: I'm blind as a bat without my glasses and this was definitely a glasses off activity. I'm face down, nekkid, and blind. So far, so good. She and my friend have a running commentary going, chitchat, family news, etc. and I'm concentrating on my mantra: "Don't fart, don't fart, don't fart..."

She pulls all the covers off of one side, top of hip to toes. I hear a plastic cap snicking open, oil being poured and the cap closes. Sounds of her hands rubbing to warm the oil, and then....... she takes a foot. Oh. My. God. Toes, feet, snick, pour, rub, calf, knee, snick, pour, rub, thigh, butt, ~moan~. Repeat with other leg. Finishing the liquidization of my legs, she covers me with the sheet and blanket and moves to my head. It's at this point in time, completely totally relaxed, I look down in a fog and see her toes painted the same red as mine, and I have an out of body experience in which I wonder what my toes are doing down there. Are those my toes? Where are my toes? She starts with my neck and shoulders, down my back to my hips. Same sounds of the bottle opening and oil pouring, then heavenly touch. At this point, I don't know where I am or who's there, and I couldn't care less.

She instructs me to roll to my back and move down a foot. These are highly complex directions considering I no longer had a brain, but I finally manage to maneuver into position, and she....goes back to my feet. Unnnghhhh!!!! I hear the bottle snick open and I peek to see her tuck the bottle into her t-shirt between her tatas, and I start giggling. She's chuckling and told me she used to have an oil holster (how hot is that?), but the bottles got cold and would drip on everything. Tucking the bottle in her cleavage keeps the oil warm and if it drips, so what? It drips on her, and just soaks in. All I can think is those are the softest boobies in the world. So we get through the legs and arms, and she moves back to my head and pulls up a stool. And begins massaging my head and face. She massaged my mother-lovin' eyebrows, which was both the weirdest and most incredible feeling ever. At this point, I have no idea how much time has passed, I'm not sure what day it is. She finished by massaging my ears, and I swear to God, I was purring.

It took me a full five minutes to realize it was over and they were back in the kitchen. I oozed bonelessly from the table and kind of crawled to the couch to retrieve my clothes. I think I sat for a good 10 minutes before I could focus enough to get dressed, and even then it took me three tries to get my panties on right. I joined them in the kitchen, I think, and passed on an Nth mimosa. We talked (they talked), and I played with the brightly colored sparkles in my head. I want to know what the hell was in that massage oil.

I was delivered back to my home by lunch time, still not having eaten anything, and promptly devoured a plate of left-over lasagna and about a half a pan of peach cobbler. It was another two hours before I could keep my eyes open and form coherent sentences. We'll be doing it again next week.

Fart management is the same as erection management, if the client comments with embarrassment, the response is similar to "no worries, the autonomic nervous system reacts to relaxation the way it wants to, ignore it and it will go away". If the client comments with anything other than embarrassment.... it is up to the individual therapist on what kind of response is appropriate, including "and we are done now". RMT in Ontario :-)

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About Me

Supermom, Libertarian, and avid reader. As a stubborn, redheaded big-mouth, I was told to start my own blog and leave other people's alone. Other than that, I'm indescribable without using colorful profanity. Email at hiswiserangel@aol.com